


Accept what made you

by Devils_Open



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Body Worship, Father-Son Relationship, Frottage, Inferiority Complex, M/M, Mentions of Anarchist’s Cookbook, Pet Names, Revolver Ocelot is Manipulative, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:55:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 18,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25161229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Devils_Open/pseuds/Devils_Open
Summary: Every boy needs a father to set him straight.Or - Precursory events leading to Venom’s unlikely pseudo-fatherhood.
Relationships: Liquid Snake/Ocelot (Implied), Liquid Snake/Venom Snake
Comments: 20
Kudos: 12





	1. Accept what made you

Venom Snake’s sympathetic disposition was surprisingly not a concern to anyone. Remnants from MSF that had arrived on the new Mother Base, now a shadow of its former self, expected their old boss, furthermore hardened by the strain of war. What they got was a silent man, unwilling to venture where he wasn’t needed, no concept of war as a necessity though a role as its unyielding mongerer accepted, because that’s how he was told to behave. Un-advantageous, lacking not drive, but a trademark rage. 

Miller saw it as sweet reprieve from nearly two decades of dog-like loyalty to his boss. The one who’s advances he struggled against on the beaches of Costa Rica, with no concept of boundaries or the word ‘no’. The one who tailed local forces militant in nature like a tireless hound, ever persistent in his struggle for power. The one who’s thirst for war was unquenchable. Big boss. The legend. Their ramshackle militia was nothing without him, no more than a bought-out PMC, destitute from overspending more often than not. He made things different, changed the game. It was a struggle of patience back then, and he knew their smaller victories wouldn’t stand long-term, but not even Miller anticipated how it would all play out. Though this new personality of the boss’ thus far has proven to be a game-changer of a whole other caliber. 

The other shoe dropped, and with it came a shower of misfortune and pain on hundreds, thousands even, if you think in terms of the future, the butterfly-effect it’ll all undoubtedly have. Why wouldn’t any sane individual consider a change of heart in a man like that as being a godsend? 

For Ocelot, it was a bothersome issue from day one. 

Initially, he’d thought there was no way anyone would believe this imposter to be the real boss. The continuity errors in his memories alone, not to mention his personality which was a pathetic mock impression of the man himself, would’ve raised suspicion to anyone who’d had half a mind to actually get to know the boss. For his actions, his ideologies. Nobody truly knew the man in the sense that they could get a read on him sanity-wise, gauge his psyche as one would a civilian, or get to know him as a friend, his motivations, what spurred him on from day one that wasn’t solely The Boss’ doing, or _undoing_. That which lied beyond his role as everyone’s collective C.O was a mystery, anyone’s best guess. 

After a while, Ocelot realized he simply knew the boss just a bit better than others. John used to grunt in his sleep, grind his teeth and mumble ‘ _Adam_ ’ like a sweet song. The new snake hardly stirs, and he is not overcome with the guilt-inducing experiences that the old boss used to bottle up. Infused with such, but not accustomed, soft, not hardened. 

No one saw falsities in the punished snake’s drive or motives, or lack thereof. His horn was one of the lesser red flags in question, but even that too was overlooked. 

His real boss was not there anymore, and his phantom had become unbelievably problematic in his eyes. No one else’s, however. _The curse of knowing_. Were he a lesser man, he would let it compromise his role and likely the entire operation. 

Big Boss’ phantom has a steel cigar hanging between his lips, the smoke around his face a hazy screen. Ocelot snorts at it, chalks it up as yet another inconsistency. There’s an irony in the sight itself. 

“He certainly isn’t a toy. No lapdog for men like us. A pride like his can’t be broken down, but you know that.” 

“Of course. He’s a lot like you in that respect.” Ocelot thinks he _should_ be, his pseudo-foil role to the boss’ excursions in the area does breathe a certain _Big Boss_ aura, but they aren’t the same. Genetically speaking, he and the current boss are as unalike as one could imagine. “But he thinks of you as his father, boss. We shouldn’t let something like that go unexploited.” 

“ _Unexploited_?” A decade ago, the Big Boss Ocelot knew wouldn’t have flinched at such a word, much less the context which it’s applied to. This imposter nearly cringed. 

Ocelot remembers he isn’t speaking to the man who once preached of exploitation in regards to war as though it were child’s play, and in regards to actual children, a necessity. There’s no such thing as wrongdoing on the battlefield, only usefulness, foresight to what’s warranted, what fits the current political climate, how it benefits the cause. Big Boss had no cause back then, only a drive to perpetuate ideals he was steadily losing, reforming to fit his wants and desires. Ocelot preferred that back then, and especially now. He won’t beat around the bush for a parasite’s sake. 

He sighs, once again paving over cracks in the road he’s laid out for this new boss. The one’s he’s all but tripped over thus far. “Eli is… something of an oddity, that’s all I meant. He’s hardly a teenager and he has his very own makeshift army. Faithful followers, I’d wager,” Ocelot says, chuckling. “That’s more than I think either of us can say, no matter our respective has-been prestige.” 

“But he’s a child.” 

“And you were too, once upon a time. You remember what drove you to grow up so fast.” 

Nine years ago, the boss was nursing a bottle and weaning off the sanity required for a leader, becoming something desensitized for the sake of trudging onward, because it’s what was needed. He was filling a role, sad as it sometimes was to see. Ocelot watches now as his phantom clinks his cigar against an ashtray, forgetting it to be electrical, abandoning it, _habitual_. He lets its flame die out. 

“Those children at Masa Village, you saw how they were, didn’t you? Each one a victim of war from someplace in the world, if not right here. And they could all make fine soldiers one day. Surely even you can see that.” 

The boss’ mouth is a flat line, his eyes trained on the wall, contemplative. He picks up his cigar again. He doesn’t meet Ocelot’s gaze. “Convince me, and I’ll listen.” 

Ocelot has to refrain from rolling his eyes at the request. Inwardly, he’s sure the boss confuses him with Miller on occasion, comments like that only proving his theory. At the boss’ behest, however, he obliges. 

“Deep-seated trauma inflicted by war doesn’t just go away. I suspect I’m preaching to the choir on that front but once you’ve awakened a warrior within someone, given them cause to chase revenge and the like… it never sleeps again. They crave bigger tensions, bigger weapons, larger concepts much greater than proxy battles or petty turf wars. PMCs are all but the beginning for men with spirits like theirs.” 

The boss-esq imposter stares at his cigar for a moment. He doesn’t have a light on hand, so he relents to eyeing the stick as though it will light itself. 

Not even the drive to seek out a flame, Ocelot can’t help but notice. He walks across the boss’ quarters to a nightstand and fetches the discarded iDroid, which doubles for the boss as a lighter, and holds it to an outstretched cigar. The phantom cigar’s end glows with artificial heat.

A plume of smoke bellows up to the ceiling, and Ocelot continues, standing close by the boss’ side. “You start a war, boss, you fan its flames, and you create victims… and a valor is bound to uprise. Like it or not, we’ve come across potential here. You didn’t make those boys into killers, they just _are_.” 

“So you’re saying we should take advantage of them.” 

“Of their _potential_.” 

Venom Snake laughs, not so incredulous as much as exhausted. It sounds dulled through a lungful of thick smoke. The role he’s filling is weighing on him.

Ocelot raises a brow, “Don’t believe me?” 

“The problem is that I do believe you. But we aren’t soulless, Shalashaska.” 

The empty usage of his moniker makes Ocelot’s eye twitch. Why should he play coy when there’s a war at risk of being lost, or assets unused. His days of poking the bear and anticipating its roaring thunder are over, because the beast he’s come to know as of late is deflated, no sense as to what needs to be done. 

“Think of Eli, at least. He’s bound for something in this world beyond leading twelve year olds into the fray,” Ocelot points a finger at Venom, lowering his tone, “and you can see it too. I know you well enough.” 

“Maybe you don’t know me as well as you think, Ocelot.” 

Again, a twinge of frustration beckons Ocelot’s attention. Venom isn’t wrong, but he isn’t supposed to know just how right he is. Ocelot laughs it off instead, “I wouldn’t have gotten this far if I hadn’t had some notion as to what you believe, boss. I know that you know what’s best for us, for _me_ ,” he puts a palm over his chest briefly before dropping it back to his side, “and where your allegiances lie isn’t above me either, but we have an opportunity to guide these boys down the right road. Why not act on it?” 

“Down the right road?” Venom parrots. “The best thing for them would be rehabilitation. Their minds aren’t developed enough for war, much less their bodies. Children have no place on the battlefield.” The boss shakes his head slowly, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment solemnly. “We can’t let some desire for a quick power-trip cause us to stoop so low.” 

“They’ll fall back into conflict either way. You think a boy like Eli would last in foster care? School? Any facility would turn him down. Keeping him and his boys here, to work for us, to _learn_ under us, is the right thing to do.” 

Venom looks at him, then to the floor, seemingly unconvinced. Headway isn’t made with reluctance, though, and despite the threat of prying just a little too hard donning on Ocelot, he knows he can’t give up. Nothing ventured, nothing gained 

Ocelot leans closer to Venom, invading his personal space. The boss smells faintly of soap, and something acrid though inoffensive to Ocelot’s nose, something burnt, hot - _gunpowder_. He places a hand on his shoulder and squeezes, just a touch. “Let your rule be an example to them. Teach them right from wrong. Or better yet, let me do it for you. Morals, ideologies, ethics, not just codes of conduct for war. We aren’t feeding them back into conflict, boss, we're teaching them something worth following. You’re telling me you don’t want what’s best for them?” 

“That’s not what I’m saying.” He says it fast with narrowed eyes, a different man from the real boss but still just as quick to retort when his word’s been misconstrued. As he speaks, there’s still a bit of heavy smoke teaming in his lungs, falling from his lips, slinking out of his nostrils. Ocelot inhales what he can, but it doesn’t taste like the real thing. Doesn’t sting like the real boss. 

“Of course,” Ocelot says, “I know you better than that, as I said.” He lets a smile show on his face, nevermind the low level of sincerity it truly holds. “We aren’t demons here, not you. But you know I would never act without your permission. I can’t help but try to convince you because these boys need us, need you, boss, but if you’re truly against it… then,” 

“What would you do for them? If I gave the OK.” 

_Headway_. “Oh, nothing you wouldn’t want.” Ocelot continues to push on through the frustration with a soft smile, eager to abide by the boss at face value. “As I said, reformation. Teach them how to follow, how to best use the assets we have here on base, right from wrong. It’s essential to their development.” 

“That doesn’t sound like much for a long-term plan. What about when they’re adults?”

“By then, they’ll be eager to work for us— to follow you, I mean.” 

“And if they aren’t?” 

“They will be.” Ocelot assures. “Of course… that will take discipline. Nothing too harsh, but nothing they’ll soon forget.” At Venom’s immediate look of scruitanizing caution, as if to prompt Ocelot to elaborate, Ocelot continues, “I would see _you_ teach them all the core concepts of things like _self_ -discipline, boss, but I know you can’t do everything around here.” 

“Then—” 

“I would do it. I _will_ , that is, if you’d let me. A boy like Eli, specifically, will be tough to… rehabilitate, but we’ve achieved greater feats for the cause, haven’t we?” 

Venom’s looking at him directly now, and as per rare occasion these days, with the eyes of a leader making a decision, no longer favoring the glow of his cigar’s tip. “This is what’s best for them, of course.” He phrases it like a question. 

“Absolutely.” 

The boss sighs. “R&D can handle housing and facility construction for them, long-term. I want you in charge of their every move and no one else. These boys are still just kids, not commodities for conflict, so see that they’re treated like human beings and not just future soldiers.” 

Ocelot nods. “Of course. However there’s still the matter of Eli, boss.” 

Venom’s single eye flicks up to him, still a mystifying seriousness behind it, despite being a far cry from the actual boss’ bone-chilling stare. “What about him? We should treat him like the rest.” 

“But he _isn’t_ like the rest. He may have no true familial affiliation with you, but he still considers himself a snake of the same breed, still _yours_. He’s harder to control— hell, you’ve seen it for yourself.” 

“What do you propose then?” 

“Respect. Stronger discipline.” 

Right now, Ocelot is at an impasse. Nowhere to go but under the boss’ nose, however he could always venture forth into something more beneficial to him, though that could raise suspicion. As it stands, he has a dozen or so boys under his boot, and a genuine usurper to the throne which shares a striking likeness to the boss himself, and to not exploit either of those would be a foolish act on his part. But he can’t win everything, can he? He could have all the boys to himself, and Eli, and every single benefit that comes with - punish the kid by himself - or let the boss knock him down a few pegs. Either are an attractive prospect bearing fat fruit, but who is Ocelot to be so greedy. 

There’s room for exploiting partially unmarred children still shell-shocked from the teeniest breath of war one could suffer through at any moment in the near future, and likely beyond it. What does it matter if Eli’s nothing more than the boss’ sloppy-seconds by the time Ocelot gets his hands on him. His future is set in stone either way, and Ocelot will have his fun. If the kid wants his father so badly, then he’ll get him. _Uncle Ocelot_ will be there in the aftermath to help cheer him up, lead him down the actual right road. The one his genetics imply he’s destined for. 

If there’s even a whisper of the authentic boss residing within the man that stands before Ocelot, then he’ll punish Eli enough to make him complacent. After the fact, Ocelot will seem like a treat by comparison, and gaining Eli’s trust will be a cakewalk. He knows how his real boss is with disobedience. He can only hope the new one’s been shaped well enough that he’d follow the same example. 

History shows, however, that he is not. 

“Talk to him for me, will you boss? He needs to take it from you. Don’t go easy on him either, or else he won’t learn. I’ll make sure he doesn’t forget your ‘lesson’ after the fact.” 

Ocelot’s planning on being the one to swoop in when Venom’s left a sour impression on the kid. What better way to win over his most useful future asset he has than to play the part of doting guardian, arriving after a beating to lick his wounds for him, offer guidance, establish trust.   
If there’s a chance the boss will go easy on the kid, Ocelot knows Eli won’t make it so simple. It won’t be a lecture, because the kid will undoubtedly escalate it. He doesn’t know how _not_ to. It’s in his genes to breathe conflict. 

“How about it?” 

Venom looks to be weighing the odds, contemplating whether this is the right choice. Ocelot’s silver-tongue speeds the due process along, however. “I trust you, boss. Make it easier for me, for all of us. The kids can’t heal from their previous conditioning so long as The White Mamba still stands to unite them under the wrong cause.” 

Venom nods. “I’ll talk to him.” 

“And you’ll make sure the lesson sticks?” Ocelot cocks his head to the side, eyes narrowed. 

The boss pauses, as if losing faith even in himself. He wouldn’t be the only one doing so. 

“I will.” 

—

A youth with a cursed face slinks towards the mess hall of Mother Base. In his back pocket, he has a conch shell and a lighter, and beneath the waistband of his oversized khaki shorts, there’s a switchblade. 

His initial arrival on Mother Base was of a larger debate than even he knew, and whether he gets to stay is another matter entirely. Those who saw him in the medical bay upon arrival treated his adolescent rage as what was decidedly named ‘puberty’, though they may as well have spit in his face and called him lesser than a man, because that’s exactly how he received it. If his dislocated arm hadn’t been proof enough, not to mention the rope burns around his wrists, or the bruises along his jaw from a particularly metallic punch, he’s not one to know when to quit, and unfortunately for others, well-suited for combat. In fact, his specialty seems to be a singular stubbornness in the face of opposition, relentlessly vying for conflict. Those who would see him thrown off base and sent back to shore don’t know the half of what his fate has promised, nor what he’s capable of, and anyone who strives to see him rehabilitated simply doesn't understand the breadth of his anger. 

However, luckily for him on this occasion, there are more who’re hopeful for his recovery than not. If the scales were to be tipped in any other direction, he’d probably be in a cell right now, or at the very least under surveillance. 

As it stands currently, he’s more grateful that isn’t the case. Leave it to the adults to make such foolish decisions…

Thus far he’s been named _Eli Doe_ , and given temporary stay in this base’s facilities. He’s been stripped of his _nom de guerre_ and separated from his men, barred from contact, and the likelihood of him getting a moment’s peace from the powers that be above him is little to none. As far as he knows, he’s entirely on his own. Not just alone, but falling. 

He’s decided he may as well take a few people down with him. 

Buildings on base have few windows if _any_ , as each wall is clad in firmly corrugated steel, painted pitch-black and white, or orange. A dog’s head within a diamond outline frames most of the outer walls. The mess hall stands out especially due to its placement - at the center of a cluster of buildings near the R&D platform so as to cater to having large windows, though shielded on all sides by opposing facilities to avoid exposing the panes to harsh winds or ocean spray, as well as the sun - and finding it was relatively easy.   
Any platform on base can be accessed, even by recently-fultoned recruits, children being no exception, so Eli’s had little issue getting around. The only problem thus far has been actually gaining entry into each. Most second-level and upward buildings require keycard or retinal scans to grant entrance. Eli’s had to make peace with the reality that he won’t ever actually manage to find a way into the armory for weapons and the like, but he’s nothing if not resourceful. 

He’s made his way to the mess hall to find alternative means of arming himself, however, and done so as subtle as possible. 

One thing about the chow hall is that anyone is allowed inside with the exception of quite literally no one. Everyone needs to eat, which constitutes the often recommended three meals a day and purified water to combat the harsh sun, meaning all faculty are not only allowed entry but welcomed in the building, free to use its services. 

Eli walks inside unguarded double-doors and takes a look around. Left to right, there’s tables with long, metal slats for seating, perfect for communal dining. On the wall closest to him is a pair of what he assumes are greenhorns, donning fresh buzzcuts and lazing about behind a long counter clad in low-hanging glass panes and deep divots on the countertops themselves to hold various food items in deep trays. 

He doesn’t bother sparing so much as a glance at the two soldiers, and instead makes his way to the very end of the counter where various beverages lie in a tray filled with ice. 

Prying eyes watch him suddenly shove his hands into the cold mess, tossing carbonated drinks and plastic bottles aside with impatient huffs. He stops, however, when he finds a glass bottle. 

Before he can be scolded for defacing communal rations, he’s outside and making his way to the command platform - the location of Diamond Dogs’ very own Big Boss - and emptying the bottle along the way. He never bothers drinking sugary things like that. He considers his palate far above sugary _baby_ drinks. 

On a rooftop somewhere around the command platform, between closely-knit scaffolding and caution tape wound so tight that no adult could tread beyond them, Eli plops down beside a small pile of emptied bottles. 

One by one, biting his lip in concentration, he gathers them into his lap and makes sure they’re bone dry on the inside. He picks up a flask that’s sloshing with something bronze and utterly putrid in smell, and that leaves an awful burn in the throat when drank - not that Eli would admit that. He evenly distributes the flask’s contents into the bottles. Switchblade in hand, he cuts strips of his shorts off where they hang too loose around his knees, shoving them in wads into the bottles with the tips hanging out by a few inches 

Before he arrived at Bwala Ya Masa, with his makeshift army of local boys, he had crossed paths with a group of soldiers belonging to a facility not far from there. It was littered with storage tanks and canisters that were bright red, round in shape, some great and big, others as meager as rusted drums. It didn’t take him long to figure out that most either held crude oil, or flammable liquids of some sort. It also didn’t take him long to deduce that the quickest way to take over a facility of stupid adults was by lighting everything on fire, though it wasn’t his best work, it served its purpose like a damn _charm_. 

He picked up a copy of some book around the same time that one of the soldiers had been carrying - ‘ _something-cookbook’_. He found it dreadfully boring, full of convictions and ideologies he had no interest in, but it did have a few lessons he found useful. One of which being how to effectively utilize the fires he’d so carelessly fueled, stuff them in bottles, make them projectile rather than risky close-quarters assaults. From that point on, circumstances demanded jerry-rigged boobytraps and weapons. He simply found the experience to be an added bonus of enlightenment. 

Here, the information he’s gathered will undoubtedly be invaluable. 

He stuffs a few bottles inside his coat and holds it closed tight by the hem, concealing them though leaving an obvious bulge on his stomach, and makes his way down via pipes and ladders. By the time his heavy boots - too large for his feet - hit the ground on-level with the main helipad, he’s begun to arouse suspicion. As angry as he is, he’s truly never felt better. 

Eli screams at the top of his lungs towards the upper levels of the building before him, his voice carrying. “ _Father_! Show your face now and die like the _coward_ you are!” 

He’s turning heads already. Soldiers making their rounds listen intently, and a few sigh, already knowing exactly what’s happening from previous offenses. 

“Bastard! I know you can hear me!” 

He pulls his coat open and dons a bottle in one hand, pulling the stolen lighter from his back pocket. With a beaming, shark-toothed grin, he narrows his eyes and watches the rag peeking out of the bottle’s neck burst into flames. Men begin to rush over, some pointing their guns but knowing not to open fire on a mere child. Their mercy is his advantage. 

He winds back his arm and sucks in a sharp breath. He closes his eyes, lobbing it as hard as he possibly can. 

However, he doesn’t hear a mighty burst of glass or the screech of flammable alcohol igniting in a concussive blast. Nothing explodes, no one screams, sirens don’t wail on alert. Instead, there’s silence. Eerie silence that reeks of _bloody failure._

Eli opens his eyes to the unfortunately familiar olive-drab fatigues and khaki bulletproof vests he’s come to know and loathe, and his well-crafted cocktail of destruction isn't lying in shambles anywhere, but instead within a man’s grasp. 

He hisses, taking a step back. “Father,” 

The horned boss stares down at him, indifferent. His gruff voice is low and even, but faintly tired, and who can blame him. “Confiscate those cocktails.” 

“Wha—“ 

Before he can protest, men swarm him. He watches Big Boss hand over the molotov he’d attempted to throw into the hands of a soldier, joining with the rest as they all strip him of his only means of defense, undignified. He yells, his voice cracking humiliatingly, “Give those back, they’re mine!” 

They’re barely restraining him, just enough to get the bottles off of his person, but it’s still enough. Not even a boy as unnaturally strong as him with such aptitude for hand-to-hand can fend off five or more adult men all trained in the boss’ very own CQC. 

Big Boss waves a single hand, and suddenly they all back away, leaving Eli to flail and kick. He’s still yelling, cursing his father.

His breathing is labored, indignance written across his features, _infatuated_ with revenge. “You’re a damned coward,” he hisses. “If you were a real man, you’d give those back and fight me, one-on-one!” 

The boss’ broad chest rises and falls with a hearty sigh. He spares Eli a glance before turning around, beckoning him to follow with a hand. 

“Wha— _hah_! You think I’ll just follow you blindly? I’m not _stupid_. Not like everyone else around here.” 

Venom casts a single, narrowed eye over his shoulder. “If you knew half of what it means to be a ‘real man’, you’d show some respect, first and foremost.” 

“...” 

Eli’s indignant frown deepens, but he doesn’t reply. Pride is easily sated, easier insulted. Perhaps he _was_ a man back in Africa, but he’s no longer in his element, rendered merely the sum of his age in the eyes of his so-called father, and everyone else around them. 

“Follow me, _commander_.” 

If there was any sarcasm to the usage of his proxy title given by the status he once held, Eli couldn’t recognize it. It’s no _Nyoka ya Mpembe_ but it serves its purpose. Pride, easily sated. 

Eli spits, and follows with great infuriated trepidation. 

  
The inside of one of the command platform’s buildings is merely a winding corridor. There are no barracks as far as Eli can see, no men, even, and no _stench_. It’s sterilized, and lacks the aroma of adrenaline and hatred that men of war exude. It smells nothing like the places he’s seen most soldiers reside. 

He cautiously follows the large silhouette of the boss until he’s led to a threshold, and beyond that is less than what he expected. It’s… a common room. No - someone’s personal quarters. 

Eli snorts, “Is this some kind of joke? I thought we’d be, you know— _fighting_. Why are we here?” 

“Because I wanted to talk.” Venom closes the heavy steel door behind Eli, latching it shut, locking it, Eli notices. 

Eli crosses his arms, wrinkling his nose. “What makes you think I want to talk to _you_?” 

The boss’s room is small, but it’s certainly no communal housing, and a far cry from the barracks at any rate. There’s one dingy loveseat that looks like it was made locally, with thread ends shredded off of one arm, a side table next to it. A few feet from the door is a large, queen-sized bed, much bigger than the small mattresses he’s seen most of the sorry sods around base crashing on. From where he stands, he can just barely see beyond another door left slightly ajar, leading into what he assumes is a bathroom.   
Venom pulls at his wind-chafed scarf with two fingers, and drops it to the floor beside his bed. He turns and eyes Eli, still removing his outermost protective layers. “Have a seat.” He gestures toward the couch. 

Eli scoffs as loudly as he can. _You wish, old man_ , he thinks. Of course it would be just like the boss himself to try and trick a boy into some false sense of security, but Eli is no mere child, he won’t be fooled. 

“And you can leave your knife on the side table.” 

_Crap_. Of course, that was one of the first weapons he’d ever brandished against his father, so it’s not so unbelievable that he’d remember it, remember how it almost felt against his skin. It was confiscated the moment Eli had been led off the helicopter that brought him here, but once again, he’s nothing if not resourceful. He’s not so stupid as to think he could just steal anyone’s knife and have it go unnoticed, and he missed his own something dreadful, so he simply stole it back. 

It’s been burning a hole against his hip for the last few minutes anyway, begging to be used. 

Eli rolls his eyes, but relents nonetheless, smirking. “Here,” he grips it by the handle, pops the blade out, and throws it at the boss, “you can have it!” 

Venom catches it inches from his own face with his metallic hand, just as anticipated. Eli uses the split-second of pause as his window to attack. 

He rushes across the room towards Venom. He’s aware of his physical stature and what that means for him in battle, meaning he’s no stranger to using his size and agility to his own advantage. When it comes to the hunkering mass of pure muscle and shrapnel that is Big Boss, there are certainly no exceptions. 

Eli dashes beneath Venom’s legs and uprights himself behind the boss. He could strike the kidneys, punch and claw at thick, taut tendons just above the calve, plunge a blade deep in between spinal columns. He’s unarmed, though, which means he’ll just have to figure out a feasible means to finally end this, or he’ll have to disarm his opponent.   
As he’s deciding, the boss’ body twists at the waist, his pointed elbow swinging back and just hardly grazing the top of Eli’s head as he ducks. The squatting position prevents him from staggering backwards, however, when Venom spins, his leg sweeping in a lightning-fast kick. Eli’s balance is knocked right out from under him as he lands on his side, temple-first on the cool, steel floor. 

Venom folds the knife and pockets it, and leans down to grab Eli by the wrists before he can move. 

“I told you we wouldn’t be fighting. Calm down.” 

Eli thrashes. “Let me go!” 

Much to his surprise, Venom does. He himself doesn’t move though, meaning the space between the two of them can only be lengthened by Eli alone, which wouldn’t be a difficult feat, were he not on the ground and caged in by a broad, heavy body. 

His face heats up instantly, unsure of where to go but boiling over with anger and some separate feeling he can’t quite make sense of. 

Undignified. Robbed of self-agency, motives chalked up to be nothing more than adolescent rage, post-pubescent hormones. It makes Eli sick to know that his own father won’t even acknowledge his strength or give credit to the man he knows he can be. He’s more than this, he’s more than a damned legend, he’s not his father’s son—

Eli misses the brief second where Venom moves as though a physical eye-roll would’ve been too little to express his dawning frustration. He’s simmering in what henceforth will be known as parental anger, but select few know it's only a C.O’s befitting unwillingness to prolong this… juvenile exchange.   
What he does is grab Eli by the pit of his arms, hoisting him upward like a sack of flour, _feather-light_. Eli knows he’s all bones and sinewy muscle, but he’s heavy _enough_. 

“Find your composure before I send you back outside.” It sounds a lot like a father’s scold, as disregarded as it would be were it something founded with sincerity for the role itself. Unbecoming of a desensitized boss. 

Eli stares up at the boss. He grumbles, dusting himself off and reaching down to massage the growing welt on the side of his calve. “I never _asked_ to be here, you dragged me—“

“You’ll find there’s a reason for it too, if you listen to me. Better yet, stop trying to stick a knife in my back.” 

“You wish,” Eli spits. He’s above few things when faced with certain circumstances, but what he won’t do is allow everyone to be proven correct, that he is just as easy as his age would suggest. That his rage can be swayed, redirected. He is angry, and his father - who _made_ him that way - has no right to demand he be anything else. 

“To the couch, Eli.” A pointed finger lights the way, as if Eli hadn’t any eyes to see for himself. 

If it was meant to be a stern, but benign direction, Eli hadn’t received it that way. By the time he’d plopped down on the very furthest corner of the couch with his arms crossed, fists balled, scowling, Eli had already begun plotting how to get his knife back. Maybe the usage of his real name was something commonplace for most people on MB, but Venom had to know what it meant to Eli, that he was no longer The White Mamba. It enraged him all over again, something so profound that he couldn’t begin to articulate.

So he just sat, and ground his teeth relentlessly. 

The phantom didn’t follow. He’s left a few feet between them - too little distance to mean much in the way of safety, given how fast Eli can move - and is pulling a steel cylinder of something Eli can’t identify out of his breast pocket. He lights it with a puff of smoke, and that’s when Eli realizes what that stale, heated stench that permeates throughout the room really is. 

Cigar between his teeth, his expression finally settles into something content. An impending lecture doesn’t seem so daunting when he has his not-so-original comforts to soothe him, make him feel like he isn’t doing the wrong thing. It’s not enough to recite Ocelot’s words of encouragement in his own head. He’s here now, wishing he knew why the idea of setting his illegitimate son straight is causing him such trepidation. 

They aren’t related, and he is not a father, yet as he begins, he can’t help but feel like there’s more riding on this than he or anyone else knows. He almost stumbles over his words. 

“Do you know why you’re here?” It’s not as though he’s really asking, because that’s too broad of a question to demand an answer from _Eli_ , but it doesn’t matter either way because Eli isn’t _answering_. Kaz’ words fill the void where Venom’s are lacking. The boss attempts to paraphrase. “The CFA had stakes to claim in Bwala Ya Masa, and the surrounding region. It wasn’t enough to condition men, but children too,” Venom shakes his head, “but the reasons behind that are less apparent to me.”

“Anti-government forces hired ZRS to bring kids there from around Africa for training” Eli knows this, but it’s worth reciting. An _immaculate conception_ pertaining to a blossoming relationship - precise yet unprompted planning, for one boy to be placed in _just_ the right location, at the _perfect_ time. “Though the PF soldiers stationed in that village disappeared off the map, seemingly overnight. That’s where you came in.”

“Understand that we had just arrived in Africa to combat entirely separate forces, and fight every proxy battle that would come with in doing so, for a purpose. Our plates were full. We weren’t there for any meager abductions. Your extraction was not planned.” 

They’re both thinking the same thing, _what does it matter_? There’s no more enticingly foriegn, light-skinned boy to mystify and harass traipsing across lands uniting orphans any longer, just an angry child. He has always been exactly that, and he may not know it now but he will continue to be that until the day he dies, bitter, perpetually unsatisfied. An explanation to his upbringing is useless, because his future is already promised, and his present circumstances are well beyond the point of return. Maybe he knows that in the back of his mind as he protests. 

“I don’t want to hear it. What’s the use in telling me what I already know.” 

If Ocelot were here, he’d say there _is_ no use in doing so, and he would’ve never offered an explanation in the first place. If he could have his way, Venom would be doing the exact same for him, but the boss knows he’s his own man. Of course, he can’t see the irony in that claim. 

Venom sits beside Eli, who all but clings to the very edge of the couch. “I know you feel wronged by Diamond Dogs, by me personally, but I’m not the man you think I am.” 

Eli whips his head towards Venom, and bares his teeth. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” 

Right now, he just wants Eli to see him differently. He exhales a hazy, grey cloud. “Like it or not, you’re here to stay. We aren’t monsters, not the men that dragged your boys to serve where they weren’t needed. We’re no dogs of war, we won’t treat you like pawns.” 

“I don't care _what_ you do. I won’t be here long enough for it to matter anyway.” 

“Do you plan on swimming through Seychellen waters back to shore all by yourself? Will your men even go that far, _commander_?”

Eli flinches at the title. It’s been too long since someone’s paid him due respect, and it feels… good. But coming from _his_ mouth—

“I plan on killing you and stowing off this rig the first chance I get! I’ll— I’ll steal a chopper.” Yeah, it’s nothing short of unbelievable, but Eli sits up just a little straighter when he imagines it. “That Pequod you’re always ordering around seems weak enough. I could hold my knife to his throat and press just enough to make him listen to me, to _my_ demands. I don’t need you or— or anyone! I’m a man, I can take care of myself.” For his own dignity’s sake, they both pretend to ignore the incessant cracking of his voice on every other word. “You don’t know what it’s like to be here. You’ll never understand me, _father_.” 

He tastes that last word like poison, and spits it out just as the same. A slur, sour on his tongue. 

Venom sits back, resting one ankle on an opposing knee, and decides to take a different approach. “Explain it to me, then. Tell me how it is.” 

Eli doesn’t quite know what to say to that. He stares at Venom for a moment, mouth slightly ajar. 

It’s an attempt at understanding, a request to know. It isn’t Eli’s place quite yet to understand the fact that he’s one of the only people that will ever offer him such a thing. 

He grabs his elbow and fixes his eyes on the floor. Venom can’t decide if his tone is plain bashful or indignant. “I— I mean…” he huffs, trying to find the right words, “no one listens to me! The food is rubbish and the soldiers poke fun at me for getting knocked around by you so often, and my bloody men won’t fucking do as they’re told. All the while you’re— you know!” 

“I’m what?” Venom raises a brow. 

“You’re— you’re mocking me, aren’t you? You think it’s a fucking joke, do you? That I’m the same as every other sorry sod you’ve got brainwashed,” he growls, nearly biting clean through his tongue trying to choke back a scream. “I’m a man! I’m not some child, I’m not like them… they’re weak, that’s why they follow me. They couldn’t fend for themselves— I was the one catching food, killing soldiers because their stomachs were too weak for it. I did what I had to do and I survived. I didn’t want to— to lose all of that, and you took it away from me!” He‘s shouting now, trembling with rage. Tears threaten to well up in the corners of his eyes from sheer frustration, unsure of what to do now or what he should say, if he should just try his luck one last time and settle this matter right here, right now, even without his knife. “No one takes me seriously anymore and— and I’m— I’m sick of it!” This time his voice cracks far too deeply for it to be ignored. The high-pitch makes him want to bury his face in his hands. Insult to injury, like everything else in his life. 

He’s panting, hard, enough that it looks as though he may finally snap or just hyperventilate. 

The boss sees his own deep-seated regret and anger reflected back at him within the kid’s eyes. They’re shimmering with anguish, and though it seems so distant these days, he can faintly recall a time in which he harbored the same feelings. Goading eyes once called him the epitome of cowardice, and organizations have sought him out with polar opposite accusations. This _must_ be his son, because no foreign snake feels such hatred so profoundly. 

The couch shifts. Venom moves closer to his young foil and rests a flesh hand on his shoulder. Eli feels like he’s touching his bare skin. As though the thick, weathered coat between them is a measly paper-thin barrier. He can’t recall a time they’ve touched that wasn’t violent in nature.   
His first instinct is to run, but his breath is caught in his throat and he’s vying for the path of least resistance, which happens to be hearing out whatever it is that the boss is saying and pretending like it was _his_ idea to do so, not a product of fear. 

“You’re too young for an army, but I believe that you deserve respect as much as I do.” 

“You… you do?” 

Venom has control over his men, and he _could_ demand that they all play the submissive role for Eli, but he won’t insult the kid’s intelligence by doing so. Pity is not a true leader’s means of avoiding loss, it’s just pathetic. A copout tactic. 

He’ll win Eli over on his own terms, man-to-man. _Father-to-son_. Ocelot would do it with an iron fist, Venom won’t be so harsh. 

“I can’t change public opinion around here any more than I can help idle gossip. You make yourself into the man you want to be. Your men will follow.” 

“B-But a leader… needs men. I don’t— you stole that from me—” 

“In doing so, I’ve given you the opportunity to rebuild yourself. Fewer people believe in popularized memes or legends these days, ideologies don’t last long in war either. You’re already making a name for yourself, just make it one worth respecting. I know you’re capable of it.” 

“I… I suppose that’s…” Eli’s at a loss, his face flushed. He can’t exactly move away without making it obvious but, with this type of lecturing almost resembling praise, he isn’t sure he wants to anymore. “Tell me how to do it.” 

“Stop trying to kill everyone who thinks they know what’s best for you,” Venom sighs, “that’s as good a place as any to start. People are trying to make you boys feel more comfortable here. Don’t take it for granted. Stop acting like an insolent child, and they’ll stop seeing you as one.” 

“I’m not an—“ _Right, rule number one_. Eli breathes. “Okay, I suppose I can... do that. But you’d better tell your men to steer clear of me. I hate having to go easy on the weak,” he says. “You’re sure this will make them respect me?”

“You can’t ‘ _make_ ’ anyone respect you. They either do, or they don’t.” 

“You know what I mean!” 

“It won’t do you any harm, if that’s what you’re asking.” 

Eli sighs. “Okay. Fine.”

It’s not the best way to gain the upper-hand over anyone, but perhaps kindness - or in this case, mercy - is a useful tactic. And if it gets him more respect and _praise_ from his father, perhaps the other soldiers will follow suit. 

Venom pulls away and feels as though he probably overstepped a boundary, daring to touch the kid, but Eli almost misses the feeling instantly. 

Eli watches as the boss stands up and heads for the door, prompting him to follow. He twists the locks and finally opens up an easy escape, and yet Eli finds himself not wanting to dash for the nearest exit. 

Venom pulls the small switchblade from his pocket, and holds it out. Eli looks between it and the boss hesitantly. 

“Don’t make me regret giving this back.” 

The command sends a shiver down Eli’s spine. He’s trusting him, for whatever reason. He quickly nods and grabs the knife, shoving it back under the waistband of his baggy shorts. 

“That’s good.” Some semblance of a smile almost graces the boss’ features for all of a split-second. It’s gone before Eli can ask himself exactly why he wants so badly to bask in it. “You’ll be a respectable man one day.” Venom reaches forward and ruffles Eli’s hair until the greasy strands are even more so disheveled. 

It’s such a strange feeling. Familiar because it’s so knowing, distinctly paternal. Eli wonders why it’s familiar, so damn _warm_. He’s never had a father to do things like this with, to indulge in such praise. It doesn’t immediately dawn on him just how he should process physical and verbal connections that aren’t violent in nature, or parasitic. He struggles to come to terms with it. 

He decides on nodding and quickly leaving with his head hung low, god forbid the boss start questioning why his face is so red. 

It isn’t until he’s back outside that he holds his head in his hands and groans, and asks himself why he didn’t just end the old man right then and there. 

Especially when Ocelot struts up to him with that too-friendly face and smile, asking far too many questions


	2. Renounce what ties you

Two boys sit atop the command platform, tucked away on the roof of a building far above prying eyes. Left to their own devices, they choose to meet often, unhindered by pesky adults or insignificant rules. Here, they make their own, and they plot relentlessly. 

One boy mimes his adoration to the brilliant flapping of gull wings above him. He hasn’t the words to articulate _why_ he enjoys their apparent freedom and beauty just yet, but he’s not pressed about it. He’s content with just listening and watching. Their peaceful songs leave him soothed, despite current circumstances. 

His counterpart, however, is brooding, and pandering to his more basic instincts. He has no time for silly things like birdwatching. His plate is full with more pressing matters. 

“I’ll figure out what he’s planning,” Eli says. “Even if it _kills_ me.” 

His small friend is a minute presence, rather quiet and unseemly, and he doesn’t fit the description of a boy his age and size. Scrawny and far too pale, with an expression of perilous fear permanently etched on to his face. He certainly doesn’t make for a good conversationalist, even without the language barrier to keep his word as inarticulate as it stands. 

Eli finds him awfully annoying. 

“You’re good at getting information, why don’t _you_ tell me what’s going on with my father?” Eli narrows his eyes at the boy, his gaze falling to the small sliver of flesh peeking out just beyond the edges of his mask. 

The boy pulls his attention down from the group of gulls squawking above them, and blinks at Eli. 

“Playing dumb.” Eli scoffs. “Fine. If you won’t tell me, maybe I can _force_ it out of you,” he threatens, donning his switchblade with miraculous speed and quickly cornering the boy. 

His small frame curls in on itself, but he doesn’t run. Eli’s pupils are blown wide the moment he sees that trademark fear spread across his features, deep into his eyes, which are just about the only part of his face that he can see. The look of a prey animal about to jump, skittish and frail. 

“Tell me, or I’ll cut that mask of yours clean off—“ 

“Mask,” the boy says quietly as he puts his hands up. He quickly shakes his head. 

“Yeah, _mask_ ,” Eli parrots. “I know you’re holding out on me! You can see into other people’s heads just like you do mine, right? So tell me what my father’s planning!” 

“No… no _mask_?” The boy clutches the filters on his gas mask as though it may fall off, terrified. “Hear,” he squeaks. He gestures from his ear, to the center of Eli’s forehead. “Hear _you_.” 

“Not me, you idiot!” Eli shouts at him, balling both fists around his blade and shoving it into the other boy’s line of sight. 

“No _hear_ ,” the boy softly cries. “No _listen_.” 

“Are you saying you can’t read my father’s thoughts?” 

The boy shakes his head. He’s still grasping at his mask with feeble, unsteady hands. 

Eli doesn’t quite understand yet just _why_ that mask means so much to him, but there’s a lot of things about this boy that he doesn’t fully know the true nature of.   
The boy sometimes whispers his name, a quiet “el-lee”, though never speaking when it’s not required, but names make no difference to either of them in any case. They communicate solely through a shared headspace as of late, and that’s good enough for Eli. He doesn’t need to know what a freak like that has going on, _or_ listen to what he has to say. Using his precious mask as leverage is good enough for him. 

“Great. That’s just _great_.” Eli withdrawals and his switchblade disappears. He plops back down beside the cowering boy with a huff. “You're even more useless than I thought. You can’t fight, you can’t speak, you aren’t even capable of helping me get off this bloody base of my father’s. What _can_ you do? Besides annoy me.” 

The boy attempts to fix his gaze back on the birds, but they’ve all scattered. He feels Eli’s scolding more than he understands it spoken, as english words are lost on him. If he could shut his mind off to it, he would. 

Eli throws his head back, groaning loudly in frustration. “This is getting me nowhere! I’ll be stuck here until I— I — what am I supposed to do? My father won’t let me go, not unless I _make_ him, and I’ve got no way out of here. Certainly no help from _you_ ,” he glares at the other boy. “But he _won’t_ get the last laugh,” Eli snarls, his teeth bared, “I won’t allow it.” 

The other boy stares up at the cloudless sky with longing in his eye, likely wishing he weren’t so tethered to such a dreary place. Eli makes it all the more difficult, perhaps without even trying. His belittling is certainly a contributing factor. 

“I don’t suppose you’ll be useful at all in helping me get dirt from Ocelot, then,” Eli mutters with a defeated sigh. 

The boy doesn’t often dare to meet Eli’s intimidating gaze, but he looks over at the sound of that name on his lips. It stands out, even among those other words which are all but unintelligible to him. 

Eli blinks at him. “What, why are you looking at me like that?” 

_“Oce— lot.”_

“Yes, _Ocelot_ ,” Eli replies dumbly. “What? You don’t even know who that is, I bet. You’re just repeating whatever I say. Like _always_ ,” he adds, rolling his eyes. 

“Bad.” The boy pulls his knees up to his chest and quietly murmurs to himself, gently rocking back and forth, “bad. _Je to zlý člověk.”_

“I— I don’t even know what that means.” Eli pushes himself up and dusts off the khaki fabric hanging loosely around his legs. He glares down at the other boy. “If you won’t help me get revenge on my father, then leave me alone. You’re no use to me as you are.”

He pushes past the construction tape that sections them off and heads for one of the many pipes littered about the building’s outer walls connecting airducts. He readies to climb, fastening his grip around metal slats and ridged piping. He hardly spares a glance at the other boy. 

“Make yourself scarce,” he commands. “I’d start planning if I were you. The next time you see me, I’ll be stowing off this tub straight back to shore! And I _won’t_ come back for you.” 

He begins his descent, and in the blink of an eye, the strange boy disappears into thin air.

Eli’s heading for the intel platform. There’s a certain informant of his father’s he has to deal with, whether he wants to or not.

It took far longer than he’d like to admit for him to get his bearings of the whole base, especially considering how he prides himself on being less directionally challenged than most children his age. But he isn’t in Angola anymore. Landmarks comprised of foliage and lakes and mountains devolved into scaffolding, ugly buildings identical in their placement and structure, and were it not for their distinct spider-web trails leading back to the command platform, he’d likely be lost more often than not. His saving grace in this instance is that, even with a lack of signs, most men passing between platforms have patches woven into their uniforms, signaling which team they belong to, knowing exactly where to go to their next post. Figuring out their unique connotations was rather easy, and once he managed to associate names to each expanding platform, he had it made. 

He spots his first soldier with a mark of the intel platform sewed onto his shoulder, and relents to tailing him back to wherever he’s stationed. He’s no social maladjust, but he sure as hell doesn’t enjoy interacting with followers of his father. Yet he swallows his pride, somehow, and hops into the back of a jeep that should be heading where he needs to go, tossing a sheepish glance to the driver and informing them of his tagging along. He really is lucky that the boss hasn’t barred him from traveling as he pleases. 

The intel team’s facilities hardly look any different from every other cluster of buildings on base. Everything that isn’t covered in scaffolding or blocked off by temporary walls is plain and boxy, some with a few solar panels jutting outward into the sky like wings, alongside a few satellite dishes. They’ve all got that same damned logo, however… a hound’s head inside of a diamond. It’s almost like the boss is _trying_ to make it difficult for Eli to get his bearings, with how bleak and redundant he’s designed his base to be. 

He makes his way around, but ultimately has no idea where Ocelot would be. He’s not allowed entrance in any of the buildings themselves, either, which means that searching every interior nook and cranny is far from possible. 

None of this would be necessary if Big Boss had simply done what he was supposed to. If he’d played his role and fought Eli, man-to-man, there would be no need for a follow-up like this. Eli doesn’t know if it was ego or sheer cowardice that made the boss think he could just _talk_ him down from retaliation. That whole exchange of theirs _felt_ like a full-on fight at any rate, somehow. Perhaps it’s because Eli came out of it feeling a little more disarmed than when he’d gone into it, for reasons he doesn’t quite understand. But he’s learned his lesson, and he knows what manipulative tactics look like, he’s no stranger to adults trying to take advantage of him on account of his age. They’re all the same.   
What he needs now is to find Ocelot. It’ll be tough making the old man talk but he’s done far worse, and to _much_ stronger men, certainly ones with fewer years on him. He’ll put his trusty switchblade to work until Ocelot coughs up the location of those molotovs the boss stole, or better yet, he could provide access to the armory! _Oh_ , the opportunities that would bring make his heart skip a beat. 

Eli is eager enough to find what he wants that he almost dares to ask for directions. Someone is bound to know where the old man is, even if he has to crack a few skulls to get them to talk. 

As he readies to approach a group of soldiers, someone calls out from behind him. “Hey, kid!” 

Eli stops dead in his tracks, looking over his shoulder. 

“Yeah, you—“ a short woman with a pixie cut struts up to him, her service weapon holstered, unarmed. “Mind if I steal you for a sec, honey?” 

“Excuse me?” Eli turns to face her and cautiously steps backward. He just barely dodges her manicured hand attempting to grab his arm. He narrows his eyes. _“Honey?”_ he repeats, caught off guard, but the woman quickly talks over him. 

“Commander Ocelot is asking for you.” She puts her hands on her hips, wearing a glossy smile. “I’m afraid you need to come with me, sweetie.” 

Her eyes scan Eli head to toe. As if looking for any signs of protest, her scrutinizing gaze surveys his body, lingering on his hip as if she knows without being tipped off that there’s a blade nestled just beyond his waistband. “Make this easy for the both of us, okay? I don’t want any trouble.” 

“Ocelot is—“ he stammers, dumbfounded, “for _me_?” 

“That’s right, so if you’d please,” she steps aside, gesturing to the direction in which she came from, “follow me.” 

Eli doesn’t need to weigh the pros and cons of this in order to make a decision. Not only is Ocelot _asking_ for him, but he’s sent some lackey soldier on the retrieval mission. It’ll be easy to lose the escort after he figures out where exactly Ocelot is, and after that, they’ll be alone with each other. As awful as that sounds, it’s necessary. Here he was thinking he’d have to fight a codger in plain view of everyone. This is highly preferable. 

Eli clears his throat, preening that facade of coolness he only dons when he knows he has it in the bag. “Sure, whatever.” He strides past her with an ostentatious swagger. 

“Oh.” The woman blinks away her obvious surprise and catches up to Eli. “That’s a good boy. You’re not so bad, no matter what the commander says—“ 

“Where’s Ocelot?” Eli says, cutting her off. 

“Well, in his office.” The woman curls her lip and peers down at Eli. “He’s been asking for you—“

Eli sighs impatiently. “Where exactly is he? I haven’t got time for this.” 

“Level C of the comms station. We’re heading there now, if you’ll be patient,” she says sternly. There’s more than a hint of annoyance in her voice. “It’s just around the corner.” 

“What room?” 

“His office is the only one on that level. I’ll take you there, if you just— hey!”

She hardly finishes her sentence as Eli dashes around a few corners, not bothering to alot her any more of his precious time. As far as he can tell, she doesn’t even give chase. Either that or she was too dim-witted to track him through the measly dozen or so yards he put between them. 

He makes his way to Ocelot, ascending two flights of stairs and crossing a few guarded thresholds, insisting to every soldier he passes that _yes,_ he’s meant to be here. That woman’s words linger in his mind, though. What did she _expect…?_

She mentioned that Ocelot spoke of him, before he cut her off. Maybe this is a sort of test brought on by his father, passed along to Ocelot, a way to see if he’s adjusted to society, if he’s become a ‘people person’. Eli wants to wretch just thinking about it, that he would ever stoop so low as to please another person, much less his father. The latter almost seems most unlikely, no matter how much he loathes proper society as a whole.

It proves to be more difficult than he’d anticipated, but he finds his way to Ocelot’s office. At the precipice of something daunting, he hesitates. He takes a deep breath, steadying himself, and knocking on the steel door while keeping one hand close by his waist, ready to pull his blade if need be. 

There’s an uncertainty in his movements as he idly toys with the frayed hem of his coat. It feels unnatural to waltz up to the very same man he’s sought asylum from on other parts of the base. There’s nowhere to go here but forward, and he’s come this far, he may as well brave what he can. 

The door opens, and steel gray irises meet his own. The direct eye-contact makes his throat close up. 

Ocelot puts his hands on his hips and peers down at Eli. “Huh.” 

Eli’s expression twists. “What?” 

“I expected you to have an escort, Eli.” Ocelot’s gaze flicks down to his scrappy clothes and back up to his face. “Yet you’re alone.” 

Ocelot’s demeanor is more lax than Eli remembers it being, but he supposes that’s not unlikely, considering the last time they talked Eli all but cussed him out and booked it for the nearest rooftop. He’s not trying to start anything now, not while he has questions left thus far unanswered. He only needs to stick around long enough to find a weak point, some advantage he can use against his father, more so the base as a whole, if he can manage it. 

Eli makes a show of rolling his eyes, crossing his arms with enough agitation emanating off of him that even a senile bastard like _Ocelot_ should get the idea. 

“Right,” Ocelot clicks his tongue, “you’re here now. I suppose that’s all that matters.” He steps back and pulls the door open enough for two bodies. “It doesn’t surprise me that you gave Iron Harrier the slip. Not many soldiers here are willing to use force against a boy your age.” 

Another jab at his age that’s become far too commonplace, as if he’s trying to make this a fight. Eli bites his tongue. “Whatever.” He pushes past Ocelot and into his small office. 

The room smells heated, and vaguely of iron, though from left to right, the interior is clean, and brightly-lit, too. The odor is pungent enough that Eli can’t help but wrinkle his nose. It reminds him of Masa Village shortly after his takeover, when the scent of fresh blood hung heavy on the wind. Were he anywhere else, the smell likely wouldn’t bother him, but nothing so sterile should reek like _this_ , especially nothing pertaining to Ocelot. It sets an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. 

“I have some questions about my father,” Eli announces bluntly, turning to Ocelot. “And you’re going to answer them.” 

Ocelot quirks a brow. “Is that so.” 

Ocelot’s expression is always so oddly neutral, passive, almost, even when he’s inquiring about something. It makes Eli laugh knowing his father keeps such outwardly unobtrusive men as X.O’s, which is as close to cowardice as Eli can imagine— hell, even the double amputee had more bitterness to his demeanor than Ocelot, which Eli found respectable, despite himself. Most men like that allow the pitiful reality of their situation to get to them, to slow them down until they’re flabby and deflated shadows of their former selves. A man as lowly and deplorable as Ocelot could learn a thing or two from someone like that. So could the boss, Eli would wager. 

“I suspected you would. I didn’t get the idea you wanted to talk much last time we spoke, so I left you alone,” Ocelot says. “I’m glad you’ve had a change of heart. I’m _always_ here to talk.” He puts a hand over his heart briefly as if to express sincerity, but Eli misses it as he’s already busied himself with snooping around. 

Eli pokes nosily at a display case with some overly-polished handgun inside of it, and Ocelot clears his throat. “Have a seat.” He spins his rolling desk chair towards the kid. “Your queries are a priority but I do have orders, first and foremost.” 

“From my father?” Eli looks to him, narrowing his eyes. 

“Yes.” Ocelot gestures to the chair. “Have a seat, Eli.” 

Eli begrudgingly does so, plopping down into the chair lazily, man-spreading his legs in his very own trademark stance, and allowing Ocelot to meander behind him. 

His instincts say that he should be arguing, fighting, if he has to, but he knows that won’t get him what he wants. His dealings with Ocelot so far have already been touchy at best, he doesn’t want to jeopardize his chances of getting answers. 

He hears the clinking of metal, and something rubbery screeching against itself. He denies his own curiosity when the urge to turn around and look overwhelms him. When Ocelot returns back into his line of sight, he’s wearing blue surgical gloves and holding a long, flimsy band of rubber. 

Ocelot reaches for his arm, and Eli withdraws almost instantaneously. “Hey, what the fuck—!” 

“ _Language_ , Eli. I’m not trying to hurt you.” 

“What are you—“ he bats away Ocelot’s invasive hands and readies to hop right out of his seat. “Just what are you trying to do to me?” he asks, his voice raised. 

Ocelot steps back and sighs. “I’m drawing your blood. I’m positive you’ve seen a tourniquet before,” he says, holding up the dangly band. 

Eli is shocked as he protests. “Why the hell would you need my _blood_? And what makes you think I’d just hand it over!” 

Ocelot deadpans. “Yours is hardly a finite resource. This is harmless,” he waves the band and lets Eli survey it. “ _I_ don’t want anything from you, thankfully. This is solely the boss’ request.” 

“My… father asked you to take my blood?”

Ocelot nods. “That’s right.” 

Eli’s eyes blow wide. “Absolutely not!” He attempts to stand out of his chair but Ocelot places a heavy hand on his chest and pushes him back down into his seat. “What in the bloody hell are you—“ 

“It’s not asking much, Eli. Be honest with yourself, he could be doing much worse. This is hardly any compensation for what you’ve cost Diamond Dogs in the short time you’ve been here. I only need a small vial.” 

“ _Wha_ — well, what if I say no?!” 

“I don’t think your word carries much weight in the matter, quite frankly.” Ocelot inches closer with the band stretched between both hands. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be.” 

Eli tries to scoot back in his chair but is quickly reminded of what he’s here for. If he wants answers, he’s better off making encounters like this as palpable as possible, for his sake more than Ocelot’s.   
“Fine.” He stills, allowing his arms to rest long enough for Ocelot to take one into his grasp. The sensation is immediately more than just uncomfortable. 

Ocelot’s hands feel far too cold through the thin layer of rubber between them, and he’s less than gentle as he presses his index and middle finger in the soft crook of Eli’s elbow. He wraps the band around Eli’s scrawny bicep, just a few inches above the spot he’s prodding. Eli watches anxiously as he reaches over his shoulder and returns with a fat needle; the tube at its base is a thick glass, and the pointed end sends a cold sweat down Eli’s brow. 

Eli must have made a face when he saw it, because Ocelot is smirking at him, taunting and infuriatingly smug. “Oh, come on now, don’t tell me you’re afraid of needles.” 

“I-I’m not afraid of anything.” Despite his claim, Eli turns his head away when Ocelot steadies the point against his arm. “Hurry the hell up and just— just stick it in.”

Ocelot doesn’t bother stifling his goading chuckle. “Right,” he agrees placidly. He breaks the skin, and luckily for Eli, his eyes are too transfixed on the slow drawing of crimson fluid to see his features twist into a deep disgust for the sensation. 

“So,” Eli begins nervously, “my father wants a sample of my blood, and for— _ow.”_

“Quit moving so much. And before you ask, I’m not supposed to tell you what prompted this. You’ll just have to get the truth from him yourself.” 

“But… you’re taking _my_ blood! I deserve to at least know why. What does my father plan on doing with it?”

Ocelot sighs and withdraws the needle, pressing his thumb against the small hole left in its stead. “I told you, I can’t divulge the details. Just know, it’s not for whatever reason you’re probably thinking. You’ll know soon enough, or you won’t. It isn’t up to me but I don’t much care either way.”

“What can I give you?” Eli blurts it out before his rational brain can tell him not to, because that’s one hell of an offer, and to the wrong man. “For you to tell me, I mean.” 

Ocelot grabs a gauze from the table behind Eli and places it where his thumb briefly was. His grip around Eli’s arm tightens as he holds it in place. “Are you honestly trying to bribe me? What information do you have that I could _possibly_ find useful.” 

“I don’t know what you want, old man! I’m asking _you!”_

Ocelot’s eyes flick across his features in a slow scan. As if he’s searching for some falsity within the kid’s expression, some ulterior motive. His demeanor turns surprisingly serious as he finally speaks, “What happened between you and the boss during your little chat not too long ago?” 

Eli’s unsure of how Ocelot would even know that happened, considering he wasn’t there, not until after the fact, and it’s not like Eli clued him in at all. Those who saw their brief scuffle were a few soldiers and the boss himself. Though, someone could have simply reported it back to Ocelot, he _is_ the resident rat, at least as far as Eli’s gathered. Other people’s information likely comes to him as quickly as it’s made ripe for the spreading, though he didn’t peg Ocelot to be the kind of guy who would partake in idle gossip. Unless he was _already_ vying for information regarding Eli… 

“If I tell you, you’ll let me know what my father is planning on doing with my blood?” 

“If that’s how you want it, sure.” 

“Well, we erm…” Eli thinks of how to summarize the events, but finds the whole situation to be rather embarrassing as his memory serves. He doesn’t exactly have to give a perfect explanation for what happened, just one simple enough that Ocelot believes him. “We talked. A-About some things.” 

“ _Some things?_ Elaborate.”

“ _No—_ I mean, it wasn’t that important, just an— an argument, is all.” 

“You two faught?” Ocelot raises his brow. 

“Yeah. And I won.” 

“You _‘won’._ So this was a physical altercation?” 

Eli finds it increasingly hard to lie while Ocelot has one hand wrapped rather uncomfortably around his arm. He forces himself through it, for the sake of possibly crucial information. “That’s right. And it was over just as soon as it started, obviously.” Eli preens, lifting his chin in faux pride, not so honestly boasted. 

“Naturally,” Ocelot says monotonously. “So, you two talked, and it somehow led to a fight. Is that correct?” 

Eli nods as sincerely as he can. 

“I hope you’re not leaving anything out, Eli. Are you sure that's what happened?” 

Eli groans. “What the hell do you want from me?” he asks. “I told you what you wanted to know. Now it’s your turn! What exactly does my father have planned with my blood? Is it some kind of sick ritual...” 

Ocelot steps away and takes the tiny gauze with him, along with the tourniquet. Eli thanks his lucky stars that the old man seems more than conscientious about the cleanliness of his office, because all of those dreadful utensils appearing far too clinical and clean for his liking disappear into a trashcan, the needle soon following as Ocelot tucks it away somewhere. He’s finally free to stand, and he does so quickly. He puts some distance between the two of them before turning to Ocelot with an expectant look, prompting him to answer. 

“He wants to perform a DNA test.” 

“A _what_ test?” 

“A DNA test. It’s essentially DNA profiling, often used to determine whether two individuals are biologically related. This one specifically would be a paternity test.” 

“He wants to know if we’re— so you mean he… doesn’t think of himself as my father?” 

“You should be happy,” Ocelot says. “Play your cards right and you may end up belonging to someone else. Biologically speaking, of course.” 

“What the hell does _that_ mean?” 

Ocelot cocks a hip against the side of his desk and turns away from Eli, crossing his arms. “I think we’re done here, Eli. I trust you can see yourself out.” 

“No! We’re not fucking _done_ , you arse!” Eli thrusts a finger in Ocelot’s direction. “You said you’d tell me why he wants my blood, the whole truth!” 

“And I did. He wants to run a DNA test, it’s as simple as—“ 

“It’s not! I want to know _why_! You’re still holding out on the details— why can’t I know why my own father is questioning whether we’re related? Does he not— d-did someone say something?!” 

Ocelot sighs, seeming entirely indifferent to his display of petulant rage. “Why would anyone feel the need to go and do something like that?” 

“I don’t know! And don’t dodge the question! I told you what you wanted to know, so it’s your turn. You have to hold up your end of the deal!” 

“I think we’ve both withheld a certain level of sincerity from one another.” Ocelot pushes off his desk and strides over to the door. He opens it, and gestures towards the hall for Eli to make his way out. “Don’t make me elaborate on that. It’s time for you to go, Eli. Have a nice evening.” 

Eli stands there, his face heating up as anger builds up inside of him. It mounts upon itself and he’s soon stomping past Ocelot, making sure he’s watching as he flips him off on the way. Ocelot simply rolls his eyes at the juvenile display and closes the door. Eli’s suddenly left all by himself to brood. 

The moment he sets foot outside, he’s dashing for privacy away from prying eyes and cursing aloud, though not at anything in particular. A great many deal of infuriating things— his bastard of a father, Ocelot and his aggravating cageyness, this pathetic and unbecoming life of his as a whole, right along with everything he’s been forced to do and all that was taken from him. He deserves more than this, more than what his sacless father is giving him. 

He looks back to the entrance of Ocelot’s office and sees the conniving bastard walking out; he’s wearing that long, beige trench coat that Eli loathes the look of, which means he’s heading out, a place that isn’t close, likely. Probably paying someone a visit. 

Eli seethes at the sight of him. In all likelihood, he’s taking that vial of blood to the boss, and for confirmation of their _relation_ , of all things. Eli doesn’t fully understand why it makes him so frustrated, but fathers shouldn’t doubt whether their sons belong to them, it completely invalidates the offspring. Not that Eli particularly wants to be related to Big Boss, but why should all of his anger be rendered useless, aimed at the wrong man. And after everything that the boss said to him during their talk… Eli acts before he can think and begins tailing Ocelot. He’s not sure he’ll manage to steal the vial back directly from Ocelot himself, but he has to deposit it somewhere, hand it off to _some_ one. That’s when he’ll strike. 

It’s a short trip back to the command platform - as Eli quickly gathers that’s where Ocelot is going - but to Eli, it feels like the trek of a lifetime. Every moment spent eyeing Ocelot, wondering what he’s planning, why he would just allow his own C.O to make such careless usage of their funds. Eli knows his father’s operations are likely far from being in the red, but extravagant medical excursions like this one probably cost a lot of money.   
Eli dwells on it endlessly, right up to the moment that he watches Ocelot walk into the building where his father’s quarters are located. He knows he isn’t allowed access, but that doesn’t stop him from waltzing up to the soldier posted on guard and demanding entry. 

It takes a surprisingly meager amount of convincing and assurance that he’s just there to pay his father a visit, and dropping the anger on his face as best he can, of course, but the soldier doesn’t pry further and lets Eli pass. But not before a pat-down. It’s a good thing Eli had the forethought to move his switchblade into his boot. 

Eli tries his best to retrace the steps he took when the boss showed him to his room, but it takes longer than he’d anticipated. Winding halls are about as telling for direction as the buildings outside; he’s always preferred wilderness for tracking as opposed to less than urban areas, it just confuses him.   
He eventually finds the right section of the building, and at its end is the boss’ quarters. Eli stands outside with his ear to the door, trying desperately to focus on muffled voices to discern whatever he possibly can. The thrumming of his heartbeat in his ears makes it all the more difficult. Ocelot’s voice is the first he hears. 

“—results of Eli’s genetic test, we can finally put this worry behind us. I don’t know why we didn’t do this sooner. It may not be mainstream science yet, but the concepts and procedures are sound. My bet is that the tests come back negative, personally, though I suppose we shouldn’t jump to any conclusions just yet.”

“What makes you so sure he’s not mine?” 

“It was twelve years ago that Zero made plans to clone you. Sure, Eli’s age and appearance certainly are a good fit, I admit the first time I saw him I did a double-take. But I’d say we’ve been worried over nothing. The chances of us coming across your clone on a completely random op are slim to none, and I find it hard to believe that something so preciously regarded as a genuine clone of Big Boss would just fall into our lap. My intuition says he isn’t your son, or your clone, but you may still have one somewhere out there.” 

“How long until we get the results?”

“As soon as I hand this over to the medical team, I’d say anywhere from twenty-four to seventy-two hours. Labs can usually process samples in under a few days but there are expedited methods to ensure a fast turnaround time. I’ll make sure they know we’re hard pressed for the results.” 

“If he isn’t my clone, then why does he seem so obsessed with the idea of getting revenge on me? Putting our relation aside, we hardly know each other, nevermind whatever gruesome image of me the media has painted for him. His anger fits the role he‘s playing, I certainly don’t doubt his claims.” 

“True, Eli does have one hell of an attitude for his age. If he did come across some forbidden knowledge about himself early on, learning that he’s a clone, cursing you for his conception and ultimately bearing a grudge against you, not to mention his hatred for selfish adults, I could almost understand his pain— hell, I might even feel sorry for him. But no clone could have a totally different DNA fingerprint. This test leaves no room for error, so speculation aside, we’ll have our answer soon enough. Try not to dwell on it, this won’t change things between you two, and I can’t see Eli dropping all the hatred he bears towards you that easily. I’m sure you’re neutral about him either way. This is the right call, boss, trust me. When all of this is said and done, leave Eli to me. I’ll handle him from here on out, and I’ll make sure he quits paying you unwanted visits.” 

“It isn’t our biological relationship being jeopardized that worries me. His anger potentially deflating overnight is what could pose the biggest issue. Eli’s presence here is no more obtrusive than the other boys’, it’s just that I can’t see him moving past me, past Outer Heaven. His determination to put me in my place is what drives him, his aggression, and you see it too. What will a boy like him have to strive for without me in his life? A man’s spirit breaks easily when his cause for action is stripped away. I won’t see another soul lost by my past mistakes, or Zero’s.” 

“His extraction alone was dubbed DDR, boss, and that’s been our plan from the beginning. Rehabilitation of that juncture isn’t easy, but If you insist on it, we can teach Eli separately from the other boys, maybe put some barrier between him and the ideology, the meme of Big Boss as he perceives you. I suppose showing him a life outside of Diamond Dogs could be potentially more rewarding for his well-being in the long run. He won’t abandon his quest for revenge, but maybe he doesn’t have to. His infatuation with your demise and I suppose your character as a whole by proxy could be crucial in getting him to step down, to move on somehow. You would have to be the one pushing it on him, though. I take it he abides by your word over most.” 

“Then the boy needs me in his life. He needs our relationship to be biological, or else his hatred is unfounded. He can’t justifiably kill me otherwise, and he can’t heal.” 

“That’s about the size of it, yes.” 

There’s a long pause, and Big Boss’ low voice is the first to arise. 

“Are you sure this is the right call? Maybe we don’t need the test at all. Sometimes it’s better to leave well enough alone.” 

“I wouldn’t have suggested this if I didn’t believe it to be our best bet in soothing tensions between you and Eli. What harm could simply knowing cause? You wouldn’t necessarily have to tell him that you two aren’t related, assuming it came to that. Let him believe what he wants.” 

“The boy deserves to know.” 

“Of course, you’re right, boss. Just keep in mind that this can do no harm. When the results are in, you’ll be able to leave Eli once and for all, aside from the occasional influence when he needs you to set him straight, naturally. I’ll take care of him. You don’t need to bear this burden.” 

“You should get that sample to the lab, Shalashaska.” The boss’ voice sounds breathy, exceptionally tired. 

“Of course, boss.” 

On the last word, Ocelot quickly opens the door and steps out into the hall. Eli hardly makes it down the opposite end and behind a corner in time to not be seen or heard. He isn’t sure how he’s managed to slip under Ocelot’s nose this long but maybe there’s more credit owed to his old age than Eli had initially thought. Adults… all so oblivious and stupid in their age.   
As Ocelot begins down the opposing end of the hall, Eli is already slinking out towards the boss’ door. His chest is pounding and his ears are ringing. Hatred of course at the forefront of his mind, but namedly a profound confusion - some sense of betrayal, of all things - all make his body feel painfully tense. He can’t decide what he’ll do once he’s finally face to face with his blame-shifting deadbeat of a father; if wringing his neck is an option, Eli would be more than happy to act on it. He was fooled into standing down during their last confrontation but a final showdown like this is long overdue, and Eli won’t make the same mistakes twice. 

He’s balled his fist around the knob and practically thrown the door open, already shouting before even catching his father’s eye. “You bastard!” 

Much to Eli’s surprise, the boss hardly looks startled. Eli reaches down into his boot and swiftly procures his switchblade as he strides forward. Venom almost fails to dodge the first jab at his chest, which is as far as Eli can reach - though Venom’s sure he was aiming for his throat - and enacted hastily enough that it’s almost harmless with how sloppy it was, but still far too close to his vitals for comfort. 

“You fucking liar!“ He momentarily staggers, lurching forward with his knife clutched in both fists, pointed end first, and shouting so loud he’s just about screeching. 

Venom deflects the assault with a painful jab of his palm against Eli’s sternum, enough to knock the breath out of him and send him reeling in a wheezing fit. He hooks his leg behind Eli’s knees and throws his balance enough that the kid tumbles like a stack of bricks, sending him falling flat on his back and his switchblade skidding across the floor.  
Once again, he’s been disarmed and rendered immobilized by his own father. Eli cries out something between a scream and a frustrated groan, but this time, Venom doesn’t touch him nor threaten restraint; he stands back with discomfort written across his features and Eli wonders just who he thinks he is, feigning that he isn’t loving every second of this. It must be like crushing a bug, because he does it with ease. Eli only scolds himself for being the one writhing under his boot. 

“I told you not to draw your weapon on me ever again, Eli.” His tone almost conveys a sense of betrayal, as though he truly expects better of the kid. That, too, fuels Eli’s fit. “I thought we had an understanding,” he says. 

Eli scoffs loudly. “An _understanding_?” He props himself up on his elbows before continuing. “All you’ve ever done is lie to me, even during our talk! You said that you trusted me, that I could be a man like… like—“ _like you_ , Eli thinks, but that’s not true, is it? “—that I could be a ‘respectable man’, whatever the hell that means, but that was bullshit and you know it! All you care about is your precious base and your stupid, brainwashed army! There’s no room for a burdensome spawn like me in your life, huh?” 

“You know that isn’t true, so what exactly do you want from me?” Venom asks. Even now, he’s inquiring as to what Eli wants, as though he genuinely cares, but it’s just not enough. It’s a gesture that he’s at a loss. Feigning ignorance, as far as Eli perceives it. 

“Admit that you wanted to get rid of me from the start, that you lied about believing I was worth anything to you!” 

Venom rubs a tiredness from his eyes and lowers his CQC stance. He and Eli are on the same level, in a sense; emotionally done in, and tired of this dance no matter how necessary it may be. “Ocelot told you about the paternity test. You’re upset.” He takes a step closer to Eli, who shouts at him. 

“Don’t fucking come near me!” 

“You’ve earned your right to hate me. After all these years alone, I owe you that much. But what will killing me do to heal you?”

“What do you know about how my life has been? About what’s good for me? You were never there, you don’t even want to be my father! The mere idea of me _disgusts_ you, doesn’t it?” 

“It does not.” 

“Bullshit! You hated me before I was even born, I’ve heard all the stories! I thought— I don’t know— that you’d tolerate my existence at the very least, but I’m not good enough, am I, father? Too independent? Too _inferior?”_

“My feelings towards you are not what you’ve been made to believe. I don’t know what Ocelot told you—“

“This isn’t about Ocelot! It’s about you and your— your fucking lies! You’re a shameless bastard, you can’t even tell me to my face that you hate me.” Eli scrambles to his feet, despite the painful ache in his chest which threatens to slow him down. “Do you hate me so much that you need physical proof that we aren’t related? Y-You can do whatever you want to me, right— like… like I’m some kind of sick experiment to you! Is that all I am, father, just another pawn in your life?”

Eli’s gaze briefly flicks to his knife. The moment Venom sees that distinct, _careless_ look in his eye, it’s well beyond too late for him to stop the kid. 

Eli leaps for his switchblade and brandishes it against Venom. He shouts at his father and even his high-pitched squeal of anger sounds surprisingly unhinged. “Stay back!” 

He’s done this a million and one times, and it’s never yielded any meaningful results. Time and time again, he’s been made a fool of, he’s brought misery down on himself because he wasn’t fast enough, wasn’t smart enough to plant the serrated edge where it needed to go, or put himself where he wanted to be. One mistake after another, and he’s the laughing stock of everyone around him, just a _stupid kid_. The consistency in each scenario however has been his hatred, that one factor has both made and broke him and he’s tired of it, exhausted from this roundabout game of losing, and it’s all been in the name of his father. 

Who is Big Boss to talk of what’s truly right or wrong? Of what Eli deserves? His word is of a demeaning sort by default, it’s always been in their nature to breathe suffering into one another. His father likely wishes he’d never made it out of the womb - or whatever test tube he was born from - and Eli is steadily right there with him. 

His heart is hammering in his chest so loud he can’t hear himself think. His blood is boiling. He raises the switchblade, his breathing picking up, and taunts his father with venom in his voice. “You want to know if I’m yours, do you? I’ll show you your own blood that courses through my veins then, father, if it pleases you!”   
In a motion far too swift for Venom to prevent, Eli brings his blade down the length of his own arm. It’s too shallow to mean anything, and he’s not so stupid that he’d commit suicide, he wouldn’t give anyone that satisfaction, certainly not his father, of all people. But it’s enough, most definitely for the boss. 

Venom throws caution to the wind and finally chooses to abide by instinct - something base and paternal, perhaps despite both of their best efforts - rather than rationale, and delivers a hard slap to Eli’s ear with his flesh hand, expertly landed that its impact is debilitating.   
Eli falls like a sack of potatoes. His switchblade isn’t in his grip anymore, and both of his hands are clutching his head as he cries out. His ears are ringing and of course Venom feels a pang of guilt at the sight, but it gives him enough time to kick the small blade across the room before Eli can grab it once again.   
Venom reaches down to aid in uprighting the kid, but Eli’s shoulders begin to tremble. He’s sure it’s just from the pain, but a growing expression of pure anguish on his face says otherwise. 

Eli’s body curls into a tight ball, more unobtrusive and small than he’s ever been. His fists are knotted into his hair which is quickly matting from the blood oozing out of his arm. His elbows meet in front of his face, shielding it from view, hiding stray tears that betray his entire character, every ounce of idiotic stoicism he’s managed to build up over the years, everything that defines him. 

“I just…” his voice is a hollow echo of its normal sound, and it wavers briefly, “I don’t understand why— why I’m not good enough.”

Venom is taken aback. “ _Oh_ , Eli,” he reaches down to make physical contact with his son, who’s pain he’s responsible for, but Eli jerks away from the advancement. 

“Don’t touch me! You’re… why am I not enough? W-Why is this all that I’m allowed to be? Am I…” he sniffles, rubbing one eye, “am I just n-not good enough for you? S-Should I change?” I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.” 

Despite his feeble protests, Venom slinks a hand around Eli and gathers the boy up in his arms. Eli writhes through every second of it, hissing when his fresh wound grazes against the rough fabric of the boss’ clothing, practically growling like an animal when Venom brings him close and doesn’t let him stray far. 

He carries Eli to the bed as if to add insult to literal injury, making him out to be featherlight, infuriatingly vulnerable as far as Eli sees it. He reaches under the low mattress and pulls out a very small, compact first-aid kit. Eli pushes his hands away as he tries to get a good look at the messy slice. 

“Keep your arm above your head, there you go.” 

“I don’t need you, I don’t— I don’t need this _from_ you. W-Why are you pretending to care about me?” His words are enunciated by hiccups that he’s by all means pretending simply aren’t occurring, for his dignity’s sake. His voice is broken by droves of involuntary sobs. “Just let me go, leave me alone!” 

Venom pretends too, for his sake, that he isn’t feeling monumental waves of guilt at those broken sounds, nor the few streaks of fluid down Eli’s cheeks. Eli is furious with him, and he’s doing what every child does when they’re afraid; he’s shutting down. Most toddlers sleep, but of course a boy like Eli would exhibit behavior more closely resembling self-destruction. 

He keeps Eli’s arm elevated and empties the small first-aid kit’s contents onto the top comforter. He stops to analyze the wound.

“It’s a superficial laceration. You shouldn’t need stitches.” 

Venom pulls antiseptic cream from a small package. As gently as he can manage, he applies it to Eli’s arm. His conscience doesn’t exactly benefit from seeing the painful sensations only worsen Eli’s sobbing, and therefore his mortified fear, because he does look exceptionally weak. This is a side of him that Venom’s never seen. 

“Stop that! J-Just let me bleed!” 

Still, Venom bites his tongue. He pulls gauze and adhesive bandages out and carefully wraps his arm. Eli dares to make a move to scratch at the bandages, as if to remove them, and Venom grabs his wrist. 

“Leave them. You could develop an infection if that stays uncovered.”

“I don’t—“ Eli thrashes violently, throwing punches against Venom’s chest, “fucking care! I’m nothing. I don’t belong here, I don’t want to be here, father, but you won’t let me just— you won’t let me go… I fucking _hate_ you!” 

It’s never enough to threaten an enemy with impending downfall or unyielding havoc. Men like Big Boss don’t break, and that’s exactly what drives Eli to such madness on his father’s account. He’s a foe that Eli simply cannot best, and he’s an ally which Eli feels he’ll never gain, and he’s not sure which of those stings worse. 

To mean nothing to one’s enemy is a painful feeling. Knowing a life-altering grudge is one-sided, that some forms of intoxicating revenge will never be met, hatred never reciprocated, is enough to drive one man insane. This has been a long time coming, Eli simply can't stand it anymore. 

Venom meets every punch until Eli’s hits are gradually lessened to something deflated and light. The boss pulls his small arms close, minding special attention to the freshly bandaged one, and lets Eli tantrum and cry into his torso. He’s what every ounce of anger afflicting this tiny body stems from, and he can’t see anyone else being responsible for its waning. 

Eli’s body shakes with fury and anguish, and Venom rubs his back, speaking as soothingly as he can. 

“You are enough,” he says. “But you have nothing to prove to me. You’re my son whether a test proves it so or not because I say that you are. You deserve to expend this hatred onto me, I deserve to take it.” 

Eli clings to his broad chest, clutching the fabric of his shirt and burying his face so hard that he’s almost too muffled to hear. “I don’t b-believe you. I-I’m not— not enough.” 

“You’ll hate me for this. But hate me because I do see you as an equal with value, not because I don’t. Take from this whatever you’d like, the truth still stands,” he runs his fingers up to Eli’s neck, cradling him close enough to suffocate under the physical adulation, “you’re my son, Eli. I don’t care about the specificities of your conception.” 

“Why d-did you make me this way? Am I— is this fun for you? Is this what y-you wanted from me?” 

Venom’s initial answer is no, he did not want this, he wouldn’t have approved of anything like this if he’d been clued in on its happening. But there are a lot of holes in his past where his memory no longer serves, and he has no choice but to assume that at one point - as far as he’s been told by others of the man he used to be - he had to have wanted this, somewhere along the way. Eli’s existence is a pitiful one, and it will be until the second he draws his final breath. But Venom doesn’t wish to do away with the boy crying in his arms about his innate inferiority, he only wishes that pain had never come to pass. 

But Zero’s mistakes are his own, and he will claim them, no matter how burdensome. He owes it to this boy, not because the legend of Big Boss needs to be a generational ordeal, but because perhaps soothing one young soul is a good start in compensating for everything else he’s done. He won’t cast him aside for comfort’s sake. Eli is his now. 

He peels Eli’s body away from his own just enough to get a good look at his face, just before speaking. “You can breathe now. This shouldn’t be your burden to bear alone.” He's speaking of the clone debacle, of every year spent wondering if ideologies befit the man, or the world, if a meme made living in a modern society where things like PFs are devolved institutions should be considered sane practice. And of innate inferiority, because somehow they both feel it, the only difference being that Venom didn’t come into this world knowing himself to be a lesser of someone else. “I would have never wanted this from you. Not the man you’re growing into but the pain you’ve internalized. Diamond Dogs, Outer Heaven, they mean nothing without linear morals. You can be greater than me, you won’t make the same mistakes I did.” 

“B-But I— I have to live up to your example,” Eli hiccups, wiping snot from his nose, “that’s what you created me f-for, right?”

“Your purpose is yours to decide.” Venom dares to venture his hands across Eli’s exposed chest, to the flushed color of his collar back up to his stained cheeks. “Don’t follow whatever path you think has been set for you. Act on will alone, not expectation. You have that freedom, I don’t. Use it well and you’ll make me proud.” 

Eli’s chest feels close to bursting at that one word - _proud_. What facet of his existence has ever warranted pride beyond something egotistical? He’s no more special than any other boy his age, but the boss is proposing to him an idea he’s never so much as entertained before, that he doesn’t have to be what his conception or upbringing into this world dictates he should be. That his anger is a choice. 

This father of his has been a part of his life longer than they’ve even known of each other, but it was never positive. Now, he’s carved out a place for himself in Eli’s mind and heart, and it’s a painful realization that maybe he _is_ too in love with hating the man to kill him, and perhaps now just too loving to do him in regardless. 

“You're… proud of me?” He hates asking, as it sounds more pathetic than anything he’s ever said before, but he just wants it so damn badly. He drops his face back into Venom’s broad chest. “Tell me you're p-proud of me, father. _Please.”_

Venom pushes his small frame backward enough to once again take in the full view of his face and chest, and slinks a hand across his small body. He touches a faded gash absentmindedly, as if to drive home how every part of him is worthy of boasting about, even the ugly scars, and utters those words. “I’m proud of you. I’m proud of how strong you are, just look at yourself,” he wanders his fingers across the expanse of Eli’s torso until he reaches his arm, and says once again, because reiteration is warranted, “I’m proud of you, Eli.” 

Eli shudders. His tears are steadily drying. 

Venom’s hands ghost over the pale flesh of Eli’s arms. His limbs are slimmer than most, and like the rest of him, the skin is pulled taut over tough, sinewy muscle. He’s careful, sliding his metallic hand under Eli’s, twisting his palm upwards. He uses his flesh hand to chart the expanse of the kid’s wound where his flesh is an uneven split beneath his bandages.

He should see him as a warrior, his own spawn, destined for grave injuries beyond meager self-inflicted mutilations. He’s had to bear witness to what war does to men with spirits half as determined as Eli’s, and he speculates Eli’s own thirst for power will be his undoing. 

Perhaps it shouldn’t, but the thought of him succumbing to his own limited mortality pains Venom. 

He isn’t his, per se. But Venom wants him to feel owned, taken care of. That’s what he deserves after everything he’s been subjected to on account of his and Zero’s carelessness with life. 

He gently presses against the broken seam of his son’s skin through the bandage, and the wound is tender enough to make him jolt and whine lowly.

“Does it hurt here?” His husky voice is a low, baritone rumble. He’s cautious, snaking his hands wherever they could possibly soothe what ails the kid. His boy, made to come undone just like this. To heal in his arms. Outburst unintended, but more than necessary. 

Eli squirms. 

He nods, choking on something whiny and undignified. Venom hushes him. 

“It’s alright. Tell me where.” 

“J-Just my arm.” 

Venom hums. “Anywhere else?” 

“Well…” it’s too much to ask, because surely they’ve both better things to attend to than prolonging this tiresome and humiliating exchange, but Eli gives in. “My stomach.”

He’s speaking of the awful butterflies he feels, but Venom spots something more apparent. 

A monument to his life of conflict, there sits an unsightly, diagonal scar on Eli’s belly. It’s old enough that it causes him no pain. Ugly, but he pays no mind to it. Venom touches it, and ventures so far as to lean down and plant a chaste kiss to the exposed skin. 

Eli’s entire body feels ignited at the gesture. He can’t help but lean into it, asking for more.

The love of a father shouldn’t be hard won, yet Venom’s is almost too easily obtained, and shamefully addicting, Eli finds. He craves more, anything he can get to compensate for a lifetime of going without it. 

His marred flesh is uneven beneath Venom’s fingertips. He weaves his touch between the lines of scars, some old and some new, feeling out clustered divots of shrapnel spray on Eli’s hip, to a partially healed slice across his right nipple. On each, he pauses to press his lips against the heated skin. His movements earn a high-pitched whine from Eli and a small but strong hand in his hair, begging him closer. 

Eli’s all but clinging to him. He’s whining, gasping at the roughness of Venom’s beard and chapped lips on his sensitive skin; if he didn’t feel so overwhelmed, he’d probably be furious at how vulnerable he’s been rendered. 

“ _Oh_ — can you d-do that again? _Please_ , father.” 

Venom hums in acknowledgment. He pushes aside Eli’s coat and leaves a trail of kisses from the curve of his ribs up to his clavicle. Eli shudders under the sensation. 

A fading bruise - brown and ugly - darkens the skin just below his jaw. Venom slides his hand across it, cupping Eli’s jawbone that’s partially rounded off with baby fat he’s yet to shed. He tilts Eli’s head upward and kisses the small blemish. He’s still massaging the tender flesh of his arm which is lying in his lap, but his fingers are wandering. Even on Eli’s thigh, he can feel faded scars. The boy is a _tapestry_. 

Venom could wax poetic about some symbolism behind those markings, how he wishes to adore them until they stop meaning so much. But the sight of them simply saddens him. 

It takes a few meager touches around his inner thigh for Eli to start canting his hips into Venom’s hand. His mouth open, jaw slack, he desperately clings on to what he can and chases that pleasure he doesn’t understand the meaning nor origin of yet, chalking it up to the oddity that is paternal love. 

“F-Father?” 

“Quiet, honey. I’m right here.” Venom pulls Eli onto his lap by the pit of his arms so as to not still his hips. The boy is lazily grinding down, utterly uncomposed and bordering on delirious. He’s feverishly hot, too. 

“Father, is this— a-are we having—?” He feels stupid just attempting to utter those words, so he drops them entirely, focusing more on seeking out easier answers. “Am I doing— _hah_ — good, f-father?” He pants the pitiful query into the boss’ ear, and it fills his stomach with warmth; it’s as though he was made to do this with his father, who somehow makes it all feel okay, who makes him feel _normal_ , despite the circumstances. 

The boss silences him with his lips, and Eli’s stomach does a rotation at the feeling. It’s one hell of an answer, and a level of intimacy he’s never been allowed to become accustomed to. 

Venom pushes past Eli’s coat and reaches around to grip the small curve of his ass, slinking below the waistband of his loose shorts. His fingers ghost over the cleft of his butt down to his dry hole, and that’s all it takes for Eli to immediately begin shaking.   
He buries his face in the crook of Venom’s neck with a loud, pitiful cry, and his hips stutter for a moment. His legs spasm as the front of his crotch grows wet. Eventually, his movements come to a slow halt as he sobs into the boss’ shoulder, exhausted and horrified, and ultimately confused after this mind-fuck of an evening. He’s never seen anything like this enacted before - nothing beyond magazines that he was always too ashamed to look at - and he’s certainly never _done_ anything like this himself. 

“Shh, that’s alright,” Venom hushes him, abandoning his bottom to rub his back. He gently coaxes out those pained sobs until the boy stops trembling. 

Eli sniffles, and tries valiantly to hide his beet-red face. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to— to do that. I don’t know what happened.” 

Venom thumbs away those hot tears streaming down his cheeks and kisses his lips once again. “It’s natural. Don’t be afraid of what your body wants,” he says. “There’s nothing wrong with you, baby.” 

Eli nods as he tries to reposition himself. He can’t seem to get away from that undesirable wetness sticking to his inner thighs, and it doesn’t help that he’s never worn a pair of underwear a day in his life, so the moisture comes right to the surface. To be fair, he’s never paid that part of his body much attention.   
A rapid exhaustion quickly overtakes him as the waves of pleasure subside, and Venom’s practically all that’s holding him up. 

He doesn’t intend to, but his eyes involuntarily close. He comes to one final time as Venom is stripping back various comforters and sheets, placing Eli under each layer. 

The bed smells like the boss, and Eli wastes no time burying his face into the pillows for a few moments to take in that scent.   
Every part of his father breathes masculine competency. Never in his life has he dreamed of allowing himself to feel inferior - at least, not any more than his pride will allow him to. It’s always been subconscious - but the boss makes him want to strive for more, to be more, as if what he is simply isn’t enough. He isn’t enough because there’s a perfectly suitable role-model sitting beside him, and that’s a first in his book. 

Wanting to be more, to make a name for himself… desires like that have never been beyond him, but he’s never based it around any one man. He knows what he wants and he knows vaguely how to obtain it; be the biggest man in the room and the meek will look to _you_ for leadership. But Venom makes that feel so meager. He’s ruined every plan of vengeance that Eli’s concocted in his mind over the last decade, and he’s not sure what to do anymore. He’s growing content with following his example, but he’s not a clue as to why. 

Venom is all that Eli is and yet never could be, and vice versa. 

They don’t see one another as phantoms of a larger man, but they are. Whatever the future holds for them, this mutual longing will only exacerbate the pain of realizing that they are just empty husks of someone else’s leader.

If Eli chooses to follow that lesser example, he can’t exactly be faulted. Venom has done the same and he certainly can’t be put to blame. 

Perhaps that’s why Eli gives in to the pull of sleep in another man’s bed - his own _father’s_ bed, who he’s loathed for so long he can’t quite remember a time in which he didn’t - because it brings peace. His body is accepting what he can’t for himself. That it’s okay to gravitate towards someone as destined to be broken as he is. 

Venom’s fingers pushing his blood and tear-matted hair aside to place a soft kiss on his forehead are the last thing Eli feels before exhaustion takes him. He’ll busy himself with hashing out his guilt in the morning, but for now, his wrecked body is recovering. 

Genuine phantoms of Big Boss, tired expressions of an overly popularized meme. He’ll see the sad irony in this one day. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> somo voice “ah make-up sex..”
> 
> ...or heat-of-the-moment intercrural frottage because feelings are complicated.

**Author's Note:**

> Just a long lost son warming up to his dad... I could almost shed a tear.


End file.
